


The Insane Display of Mr.Cobblepot

by frenchiedoodle



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Creepy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fear, Fear Play, Forced Orgasm, Forced Relationship, Gang Violence, Gotham City - Freeform, Inappropriate Behavior, Invasive Behavior, Kidnapping, Licking, Love/Hate, Moments of weakness, Non-Consensual Violence, Physical Abuse, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Stalking, Strong Female Characters, Too much plot..., Urban Setting, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9813119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchiedoodle/pseuds/frenchiedoodle
Summary: You are the daughter of one of the most important families of Gotham, which also is a rival to the Falcone family and a threat to Oswald Cobblepot's projects. Being aware of the corruption affecting the city, you hide behind a common appearence and live under a false identity to remain unnoticed by the gangsters threatening you to gain some informations you are the only one to know.Unfortunately, Oswald Cobblepot is a ressourceful man, and soon he discovers your true value.  And while his grip is slowly starting to close around you for the sole purpose of conquiering enough power to overthrow the city's authority, he is faced with another problem: After having you kidnapped and retained as an hostage, he starts to grow desperately attached to his victim, you.And despite the repulse you had continued to show, he was hellbent to have your attention and your love. Would you resist and fight for your desires of  freedom and dignity, or would you finish to submit to the overwhelming insanity of your captor ?





	1. Gotham

**Author's Note:**

> Hi !  
> This story Is planned to be a really long one, despite the fact that I haven't even finished the first season of Gotham. (Yeah, I got into it pretty recently...)  
> I'm really into dark, thriller-like topics and stories which features many horrible things and main characters being quite poorly treated. So if you choose to read this story anyway (Yay!), be warned; Viewer discretion is advidsed and certain topics may trigger/affect some of you.  
> Anyway, have a good day, and a good reading. Bye pals!

“Eat-in or take-out?” you asked, your voice pretty monotonous.

Your day was getting long. You stopped counting how many times you repeated this sentence today, like every other day at the fast-food chain you were working at. You were completely jaded now, the experience of the two and a half past years working here making you immune to every rude customers, to every insults or stupid requests from customers desperately trying to get a refund. Well, “almost” immune…  
You quickly glanced at the clock sitting high on the wall above the grills where meat was sizzling loudly.

7:43 pm.

Your shift was almost over, and you couldn't help but to imagine in advance how you would take your comfiest blanket, a ton of pillows, make some snacks and your favorite hot beverage, and just sit down and watch your favorite serial while emptying your head when you would get home.

“Take-out please...” mumbled the young guy in a suit from the other side of the counter.

He had ruffled hair and an undone tie, and he was tapping rapidly on the screen of his phone. He must have been from the trading center a few blocks away, maybe a new employee just starting his career. The suit, the watch which seemed expansive from afar but which was in reality pretty lame, the fact that he was well dressed, but untidy and completely stressed out. No doubts on it, he was new to the trading center.

“Okay, go ahead I'm listening.” you said, smiling politely to the young man.

For the past times you had been working here, you became an expert at recognizing people, guessing who they were, or what they did for a living. You see, people in a town as busy as yours didn't have the time to eat properly, and fast-food was the best option if they didn't want to loose time. Plus working in this crowded area between the most important trading center of the state, and an industrial area not quite far away, with apartments scattered almost everywhere, you had a diverse customer base that let you see every urban stereotypes of a crowded city everyday. So, of course, you had every dynamic business men of the area, the new employees fearing to be fired if they dared to have lunch or diner, the workers of the industrial area, with their bright jackets, the kids hanging out, some couch potato coming out of their apartments to eat garbage, and so on…

You took the order of the young man, and sent it to the kitchens, before going to the side to put some frozen french fries into the boiling oil. At this hour of the evening, there were not that much customers, so you allowed yourself a more calm and relaxed behavior than when the rush hour stroke. The rush hour was just your least favorite time of the day. It was just three or four hours of people shoving each others, trying to be the first to have their orders, complaining endlessly, screaming at the employees for respecting the company policy and asking to see the manager… It was overall tiring.

You prepared the greasy smelling order of your customer, your stomach turning because of the hunger. The fast-food restaurant didn't starve you, of course, they would give you free meals so you could eat at work. But those meals consisted of the same items you would sell to customers, and you _really_ didn't want to it this kind of fat every day, especially for the sake of your liver. So you just ate well during the morning, and waited the end of your shift to go home and cook something nicer. You handed the order to the young man with a simple and almost automatic:

“Have a nice day-Hello, eat-in or take-out?”, directed to the following customer.

Your life here was pretty hard, studying in college during some of your days, working during a part of your spare time to pay your rent and have some food in your plate, and only having a bit of time for yourself, essentially Sunday in the afternoon. This style of living was tiring, you found. However, you didn't regret any of it. You were still quite young when you realized your very own family was part of a threat to you. You had loving parents, albeit pretty strict, and kind siblings; a sister and two brothers. You were cherished, but the condition you grew in was a matter of worry, and you just chose to protect yourself by going away. You ran away to a town of bright lights, sins and secrets. You struggled, but you soon learned to love the effervescence of the city, it had this constant movement like an unceasing flow of life in its veins, you felt the heart of the city beat every nights with the punches of the gangsters and the soft voices of the hookers in the street. This city, it was filthy, it was unfair, it was a trap of sparkling lights covering a looming danger, and it was mesmerizing in the way it was alive.

You liked living in this city.

You liked Gotham.  
  
~ ~ ~   
  
When your shift ended, you just quickly took the orders of the few last customers before the late eaters would have a chance to come in, and bolted to the back room. There, one of your coworkers and friend was changing to the traditional shirt and cap with the company's logo on it, so she could get to work. You gladly greeted her, albeit a bit tired:   
  
"Hey Chris. What's up?"  
  
"Hey (F/N), it's been a while! Not much, and you?"  
  
"Same. I just had been working like crazy, and the manager didn't want to cut me some slack until pretty late. You know, he's moody today... Oh! And the milkshake machine is broken tonight, and I put some fries to fry!" you informed her, not wanting her to get in troubles because of you. "If you need some help for the machine, I can give you a hand...", you kindly offered. You were solidary in nature, and even when you were pretty impatient to go home and finally relax, you couldn't help but to offer a bit of help to your friend, who would work all night here.   
  
"Nah, I got it. But it's really nice to ask, thanks!" Chris answered, smiling kindly to you.   
  
"Ok, so I'll just go I guess, I think I'm exhausted. Good luck for tonight, call me if you need!   
  
"Thank you, good night (F/N)!"  
  
And with that you were off, putting you thick coat and a scarf around your neck before exiting from the back door. Your breath made white puffs of condensed air in the cold outside, and a shiver ran down your spine when the wind howled around you. You slammed the metal door behind you and started to walk hastily to your apartment, which was a few blocks away. You were trying to escape the freezing weather of a late november, thinking about something to eat when you would go home. Maybe you would call your parents too, to know how their life was going and how many hitmen were busted this week in their neighborhood, the one you previously called "Home"...


	2. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here goes the second chapter, after a reeeeeaaally long hiatus...! I waited for Netflix to updates Gotham's seasons, but ended up binge watching it on streaming, and now I'm satisfied enough to continue this project. To the few people still having hope that I post something: Enjoy!

You strolled down the street, as a sense of your own tiredness started to reveal itself to you. Lately, you days were pretty busy. Afterall, the holidays just ended, and three quaters of the city's population was freshly rested and ready to work again, whether it was a fair job of something more... Illicit. It was cold, and a freezing breeze caressed the skin under your sweater and coat. You just covered the bottom of your face with your scarf, hasted steps guiding you through the darkened alley to a crowded street. It was you bright aim, and you knew nothing more dangerous in Gotham than secluded, narrow alleys. It was where the mugging and the cold blood murders happened. Even rich family, such as the Waynes, could fall victim to this threat. You still remembered the shock when the news fell. It was like it fell from nowhere. Most people, including your parents and, especially, you father, talked about the event like some sort of opening to a war, a terrible confrontation being led in the shadows  of this cursed town. Most people talked about financial downfall, and "times of peace being brought to an end". Apparently, this family was one of the pillar that guaranteed a  _relative_ serenity in high relationships. Most people knew the Waynes for their gigantic financial empire, as well as for their will to create and sustain charity for the poorest amongst the citizens. But for you... Let's say it was a bit  _different_.   
  
Since a very long time ago, you were terrified of the idea of death itself. Not on you own body, but the effect it had among people. As a child, you feared the day when the people you loved would die, leaving you alone. Then, you started to fear your own death, realizing that if one day, you parents had to bury you, they would probably be devastated. You wouldn't feel anything, of course. But as someone as reckless as a child, you almost felt guilty in advance to eventually make your loved ones feel that way. Then, one day, you had to face the death of someone you loved. You remembered. The people that cried. The black clothes. Religious words that were spoken to apease and give hope. It was your grandfather.   
  
It was boring. Simple.  
  
One day, he was alive, and then, he was dead. Just like that. As quick as getting out of the bus. Eventually, no one will remember. And yet, everyone seemed to make a fuss out of it. It was when you stared to realize things, including that death wasn't something that deserved you sleepless nights. You were eleven. But the fear induced a life-changing detail. Since you were as young as you could remember, you struggled with slumber. Every single night, you would lay down, rest you head on a pillow that felt too warm, and think. Your eyes wide open, thoughts swirling in your head, you would focus each night on the same details. The same, persistent patterns in the dark of your room. The luminescent slit of nightly light peering through the shutters of your window. The faint light escaping the door of your room, sitting ajar. The red light, forming the tiniest of crimson dot on one of your walkie-talkies. Every night, it was the same, and you looked at the same details for what seems like hours before you would get up, and go to your parents to tell them the exact same sentence almost each nights:   
  
"I can't go to sleep because my brain won't stop thinking."  
  
Soon after you're tenth birthday, you learned that you couldn't go downstairs. Your parents would get mad at you, because they were at a loss about what to do. You didn't take your medication, screamed and cried when they insisted, as the exhaustion brought your childish fury to life, and you would just end the day with a headache. Thinking about it, you snickered. You were kind of a demon before ten years old, and a bit after. Even your siblings often thought that you were an unsufferable child.   
But soon, your smile faded. Your parents, they were demons too. Especially when they would get mad.   
When you were around twelve or thirteen, you began to sneak around the house when you couldn't sleep. Most of the nights, you would go at the top of one of the many staircases in your house. You would count one, two, three, four steps, sit on a step, and secretly watch the TV. Your parents had the habit of watchnig late night movies, and you just used you view on the living room's TV to distract yourself. You just saved yourself the trouble of suffering restless hours of boring void. Surprisingly, you were never caught.   
  
After fifteen or sixteen, you began to notice something. Some nights, mostly during the week end, your father would descend to the cave, and leave your mother to go to sleep. Your fun with late TV shows was apparently over, but this strange habit kept you attention. So, starting from that moment, your ritual changed.   
You would stay silent in your room each nights, waiting for approximately 1 a.m., listening. You would hear the soft, gracious steps of your mother climbing the wooden stairs. The door of her room opening then closing softly. Waiting a few moments, you would then sneak out of your room silently, and head for the stairs. You would wait to hear the heavy steps of your father, descending in the cave at your fourth step in the stair case. Then, you would know that your path was safe. You would just make a run to the cave, and sit  on the steps of the stairs.   
  
The cave was a pretty dark place actually. And the first time you saw what was going one, you felt like you were in a very strange dream. There, in the middle of the concrete colored walls and floor, rested an old table, only lit by a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. It's light was febrile, too weak to illuminate anything but the table. It gave you the benefit to hide in the shadows, as you just stared at the scene from behind the bars of the stair's railing.   
And each of thos strange nights, you would watch you father sit at the old table, where there was already sitting a bunch of old men. They would drink, and talk about things that you didn't understand immediately.   
Soon, you discovered that they used a coded slang. You heard stories, about robbery, murders, corruption. During years, you heard names. Mooney. Falcone. Maroni. Some names disappeared. Some appeared, like Wayne, Cobblepot, or Gordon. You learned to search. You searched those names, read the news, searched archives. You remembered codes. Infos. Numbers. Who died, who lived, who 'left the town'. Who mattered, who didn't. You learned places, roles, keys. Everything was graved in you memory. Each of those nights, freezing in the basement's stairs, you felt you brain litteraly feeding on information.   
  
You learned that your family was a pillar. The Moore Family was one of the ruler. Just like Wayne. Maroni. Falcone. You were the third child of a corrupted family, one of the few that built the city, and crafted it's vile core and haunted structure, based on death, blood, secrets. Corruption. And you sensed the filthy blood of Gotham pulsing through your veins. 


End file.
